What Lascelle had actually said was that that was simply the way Caleb was, and she’d have to get used to it. She dropped her gaze from his, but knew he would see her lips curve. But she wasn’t yet ready to explain why, after being exceedingly irritated over being kept in ignorance earlier, having learned of his reasoning, she now found his actions...romantically endearing.
If this was a portent of their lives to come, then she was, indeed, willing to get used to it.
She drew in a breath, then set about anointing another deep scrape on his side.
He shifted his head and studied her face. “Well?” he eventually prompted.
She still hadn’t found the right words. “Well...just as long as you had sound and solid—indeed, unarguable reasons...then I suppose that’s all right.”
She glanced at him and found him staring at her as if she was a puzzle for which he was missing several pieces. She smiled and looked away, continuing her careful ministrations. “And in this case at least, the ploy worked. When the mine collapsed, I screamed and tried to race in. Lascelle had to catch me and hold me back. There’s no chance whatever that Dubois didn’t believe my performance or those of the other women and children.” She met his gaze briefly. “And you’re also correct in that our shock and surprise is infinitely more convincing. You men just get more stony faced when something dreadful occurs—just more stoic. There’s no telling what you’re really feeling, much less why—you all so rarely show your emotions.”
He nodded fractionally. “And never to an enemy. That’s written in the rules of engagement.”
She grinned, then patted his side. “There are several bad abrasions on the backs of your legs. I’m going to lift the sheet and tend them, and you’ll just have to lie there and bear it.”
His eyes flared wide, but when she rose and pulled the sheet up from his feet, he humphed and relaxed again, sinking his head into the pillow.
“How’s your head?” She started with a long scrape down the back of one calf.
He frowned slightly as if taking stock. Eventually, he replied, “Not as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Both Hillsythe and Lascelle said you need to stay horizontal until tomorrow—that the longer you do, the better you’ll be when you eventually get to your feet.”
He made a noncommittal sound that she interpreted as confirmation that his friends’ prescription was an appropriate one.
Which only led her mind further along the path her emotions had been tugging her down for the past hour.
She let the thoughts, the impulses, brew as they would while she tended the rest of his injuries. When she finished, she stood back and surveyed all she could see of his back—the thin sheet now draped over his buttocks and little else. “Lascelle was right—he said you have the luck of the devil.” His friend had also stated that the gods looked after such as he.
Caleb snorted. “He can talk. I’ve seen him come through pitched battles without even a scratch.” He raised his head and tried to look over his shoulder and down his back. “I, at least, end with scratches.”
“Scratches, scrapes, deep abrasions, and bad bruises—from being all but buried in a mine collapse.” She shook her head at him, then ducked under the netting, walked to the dresser, and set down the ointment. “Incidentally, you have several deep bruises on the front of you, too. But I tended those earlier.”
She’d rushed to salve the bruises before he’d woken; she’d been fairly certain he wouldn’t have been as amenable about her tending those as he had been about the abrasions on his back. She smiled to herself, but didn’t glance around; she could imagine his expression. For all his confident, pushy ways, there was a strong streak of the gentleman in him.
Rustling came from the bed. She turned to see him once more on his back, the sheet flipped modestly over him, and his gaze fixed on the netting above.
After a moment, he said, his tone utterly sober and serious, “It would have been a lot worse if those beams hadn’t fallen as they did.”
“Indeed.” And that realization had been her turning point. Seeing and understanding that he’d come closer than a whisker to death—confronting what his death would now mean to her—had forced her to see, to acknowledge and admit, that there was only one path she could take. Only one path to the future that she wanted.
That she now craved.
She walked, slowly, back toward the bed.
His gaze lowered, and he watched her approach.
She paused beside the bed and reached for the laces of her drab, unflattering gown.
He blinked. His eyes widened. “Kate? What are you doing?”
Instead of answering, she wriggled her arms out of her loosened bodice, then pushed the fabric to her waist, then farther over her hips until of its own volition the garment fell to the floor. She rather thought that words would be superfluous, that her actions would speak clearly enough.
All she had on beneath the wretched gown was the fine lawn chemise she’d been wearing when kidnapped. Her walking dress hadn’t lasted long in the conditions of the compound, and as Dubois had with all the women, he’d given her the dun-colored drab to wear.
She’d expected to feel self-conscious, but shedding the hated outer garment made her feel more herself.
And the stunned yet openly heated expression in Caleb’s bright blue eyes made her feel...
As if she—Kate, the woman she truly was—was his ultimate prize.
She didn’t hesitate but ducked beneath the netting and knelt on the bed.
She leaned over him, falling toward him, and he instinctively raised his hands to grasp her waist. His fingers nearly circled her, and she briefly closed her eyes; she didn’t try to mute the delicious shiver that traveled over her skin, along her nerves. Felt through her thin chemise, the heat of his touch was all but scalding.
Then she felt him draw in a long breath—sensed the lift and swell of his chest. Before he could speak, she opened her eyes, looked into his, then she bent her head and fitted her lips to his.
This time, it was very definitely she who kissed him. She who pressed on; she who framed his face between her palms and dove into his mouth and claimed.
And he let her. He parted his lips and let her lead the way—let her direct, even dictate their play, even though he was hard on her heels, following every move she made and reciprocating gladly. With vigor, verve, and openhearted enthusiasm.
Just as she wished.
Just as she wanted.
Because she wanted him. Because she wanted the future he’d conjured. He’d committed to it already, in both words and deeds. She...she’d been sitting on a mental fence, too lacking in confidence in her own impulses—her own emotions—to take the plunge.
Tonight had put paid to that.
He and his plan and the collapse of the mine—let alone his selflessness in going after Amy—had slain every quibble, eliminated every uncertainty.
What was she waiting for?
Coming so close to losing him had set that question blazing in her mind.
There wasn’t any sense in holding back. In not committing, in not openly acknowledging this.
This hunger, this desire. This burning wanting to claim him and have him claim her.
She released his face and traced one questing hand down the strong column of his throat to where the sheet was trapped across his upper chest. She gripped and wrestled the screening fabric down, then she spread her hands on his chest—and tactilely devoured, even as she pushed their kiss on into what, at least for her, was unchartered waters.
His hands rose to cup her breasts. Then those powerful hands closed and kneaded, shifting the fine lawn against her sensitive skin. Then his fingers found her nipples, teasingly circled, then tweaked until the buds furled so tightly she gasped.
She broke fro
m the kiss, straightened her back, and raised her head high to drag in much-needed air. And realized that, at some point, she’d shifted to straddle his waist.
Good. The siren inside her purred in approval. Now she’d taken the plunge and made her decision, she felt remarkably at one with that rarely glimpsed side of her—the side only he had ever evoked.
Sitting half upright, she drew her hands reluctantly from the glorious width of his chest, cupped the steely muscles of his forearms, and traced them upward, feeling the flex of muscle and tendon as he continued to minister to her breasts. She skated over his wrists and finally closed her hands about the backs of his, and gave herself a moment to savor the sensation of his hands working as he pleasured her.
She found herself shifting to a rhythm that pressed her breasts into his palms—and gloried in the connection.
Her lashes had fallen; raising her lids, she looked down into his eyes. Watched him watching her, watched him drinking in her pleasure and delight.
She knew he wouldn’t ask, much less move to do it; she had to do it herself.
She released his hands, reached down, found the hem of her chemise, then in one smooth movement, she drew it up and off over her head. After freeing her arms, she tossed the chemise away. She’d expected to feel his hands, temporarily removed, immediately return to her bared skin; she’d steeled herself for that intimate shock, but it didn’t eventuate.
She looked at his face—and saw something close to reverence in his expression. Something akin to worship as his gaze traveled over her, from her bare shoulders to her breasts, swollen and flushed, their peaks rosy and so tightly ruched, down over her midriff to the indentation of her waist, then over the subtle curve of her taut stomach and the flaring of her hips, down to the triangle of dusky curls that screened her most private flesh.
His hands had fallen to her knees. Now they gently gripped, then he skated those large, hard hands up the smooth expanse of her thighs—to her hips. He gripped, long fingers splaying around and over to caress the curves of her bottom.
She closed her eyes and let her head tip back as heat and desire, love and passion, expanded and swirled higher and higher within her.
She could barely breathe for the force of the sensation.
Caleb stared at her. He’d never in his life seen any sight so fine. So entrancing.
So arousing.
He wasn’t just hard; beneath the inadequate restriction of the sheet, he was as rigid as iron and aching.
But he still had time for this. For her.
To fully absorb whatever this was and to follow wherever she wanted to steer it.
He was hers, and he’d known that from the moment he’d first seen her—in the jungle, gathering fruit with Diccon.
And she’d been his from that moment as well, even if she hadn’t known it.
He had to wonder if she knew—and accepted—that now. Was that what this meant?
If there was one thing he’d learned through all his many encounters with the opposite sex, it was that, despite his often quite firm convictions, he rarely understood what they were thinking.
She, and this, and even more what he was determined would be were too important to chance to his not-always-accurate understanding.
When she caught her breath and looked at him, although acutely aware of the heated compulsion already racing through his veins, he forced himself to meet her eyes and ask, “Where are you taking this—and more importantly, why?”
He wasn’t surprised that she didn’t need to think, that the answer came tripping from her tongue. They’d both just gone through a life-and-death experience—both survived that salutary shock. He knew what that did to one, how it focused the mind on the things that truly mattered. And how what was revealed could drive one.
So he wasn’t surprised when, sirenlike, she licked her lips and somewhat breathlessly said, “Life is for living, but it’s also short. We need to—and should—seize every moment and live it to the full.”
His gaze locked with hers, he tilted his head. “That’s my philosophy.”
She nodded. “And I’m embracing it.” Her hands fell to his chest; her fingers curled unconsciously, as if to hold him. But she didn’t look away, didn’t break their connection. “You told me what you want, what you intend to offer. You were clear, while I...I wasn’t.”
A hint of self-deprecation slid through her eyes. “I wasn’t clear because I wasn’t truly certain, not in my thoughts, although my emotions—my heart—knew better. So I didn’t respond to your declaration then, but I am now.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his, but the hazel darkened, her gaze growing more intent as she said, “So this? This is me joining you. This is me joining my life to yours—irrevocably and forever. Because I want us—you, me, and both of us together—to have every last possible reason to fight for what we might have. To fight and survive, here and beyond. Because, like you, I firmly believe that the future we can both see will be worth it.”
He wasn’t about to argue. His heart swelled; he had to haul in a huge breath just to accommodate the expansion, or so it felt.
But she hadn’t finished. She leaned closer; her head hanging over his, she looked into his eyes. “So I’m embracing your philosophy, and I’m embracing you. With all my heart. With all my soul and everything I have in me.” She tilted her head. “Because I’m not frightened anymore. Because I’ve learned that there are far worse things to be frightened of than taking a risk on love. Now I know I have the fortitude to look death in the face—and still fight—I know I have the courage to embrace you, to embrace love. To seize yours and make it mine.” She lowered her face until their lips—heated and hungry and yearning—were less than an inch apart. “And to give you mine with an open heart.”
He didn’t wait for more. He raised his head, set his lips to hers, and claimed.
She welcomed him and urged him on, her tongue dueling with his. She lowered her body to hover over his, swaying seductively, and the sensation of her breasts, heated lush silken flesh, brushing tantalizingly over his chest sent fire racing through his veins.
Heat rose like a furnace wherever they touched. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of her smoothness caressing his rougher skin. His hands roved her back, greedily exploring the gentle dips, the satin planes, then with a will of their own, they swept over her hips, and he filled his palms with the ripe curves of her bottom.
He kneaded, and the flames leapt higher.
Then she undulated, pressing her hips to his, and the conflagration inside them roared.
Passion spilled through them, an incendiary elixir that ignited them both.
Her hands turned as greedy as his, searching, caressing, arousing. He found the softness between her thighs and delved, and she gasped and pressed down on his hand. He responded, sliding first one, then two fingers into her softness, probing, then stroking the sleek slick flesh, and she quickly found her rhythm. She rode each and every thrust, her body shifting and swaying over his in a shatteringly evocative dance. And through their kiss, through the tension gripping her body, through the pressure of her thighs gripping his hips, she wordlessly begged for more.
Demanded more. She reached between them and closed her small hand about his erection, squeezed, then stroked.
His reaction blanked his brain.
Before he could think again, she broke from the kiss, reared up, positioned the broad head of his erection at her entrance, and sank down.
Or tried to.
Despite the scalding slickness, she was untried, and he...
He shook his head. Then realized she couldn’t see; her eyes were tightly closed, and she was biting her lower lip.
“Sweetheart, I appreciate the sentiment.” His voice was so gravelly, so low, so starved for air he wasn’t sure she would make out his words. But he gamel
y forged on, not entirely sure from which brain the words were coming, “But that’s not going to work this time.” He gripped her hips, half lifted her, and rolled.
Only then remembered his head wound, but to his intense relief, no adverse reaction assailed him.
Instinct surged, driven by the new position, by the sensation of her nubile body caressing his and the firm sliding grip of her thighs along his flanks; he settled her beneath him and rose above her, sinking his palms into the pillows on either side of her head. He braced his arms and looked down on the face of a madonna lost in lust.
Angelic, yet invested with so much passion that the sight locked the breath in his laboring chest.
Then she opened her eyes, and desire blazed in the hazel. With her gaze locked with his, she moved—deliberately—to draw him to her. Inviting him into her body, into her softness, into her warmth.
As she’d said, into her embrace.
For a fleeting second, he hung there and simply drank in the sight. Caught in wonder and trapped by hunger and the searing realization that they stood on the cusp of a forever he’d only recently glimpsed. He was breathing as hard, as desperately as she. The hot honey of her welcome, of her need, coated the engorged head of his erection, and he wanted nothing more than to simply sink home, yet it seemed he had to ask, “Are you truly sure?” He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and managed to grind out, “Please say yes.”
“Yes. I want you—now.”
That was all he needed to hear—exactly what he needed to hear. With every rein he possessed gripped tightly in a mental fist, he kept his eyes closed and eased slowly—so slowly he thought he would go mad—into her tight channel.
Scalding velvet softness engulfed him. He pressed further—and felt the tearing rupture of her maidenhead, heard the quick intake of her pained breath.
He froze and held still, waiting, waiting...then he felt her ease beneath him, sensed the first faint stirrings of resurgent desire, and let the reins slide. Just a little.
The Daredevil Snared (The Adventurers Quartet Book 3) Page 35
